


Something worth living for

by hobgoblin123



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobgoblin123/pseuds/hobgoblin123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternative ending of 'Crown of Shadows'. Damien finds a rather innovative way to convince Gerald that there are more important things in life than books. Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something worth living for

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 1: I know that we had Gerald and Damien making love in the tunnel leading to the Keep before (and a discussion about the quality of the available oil, lol). But I couldn't get this little snippet out of my mind. It's just a rather unambitious bit of smut without a real plot, but I hope you'll like reading it nonetheless.
> 
> A/N 2: the 'famous psychologist' Tarrant quotes is Sigmund Freud.
> 
> A/N 3: This fic was previously posted on fanfiction.net. When said site was down for almost thirty hours lately and I couldn't work on my WIP, I decided to transfer some of my older stories to AO3 after a bit of editing. This is one of them.

Just as the tunnel was finally starting to slope upwards, making walking on even harder but hinting at an impending end of their ordeal at the very least, Gerald stumbled to a halt. For a few seconds, he swayed on his feet, groping blindly for support. Then he collapsed in a swirl of silken robes like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Muttering a particularly inventive curse under his breath, Damien rushed to his side. Or rather trudged forward as quickly as his aching legs could carry him. Vainly trying to sit up, the adept thankfully was conscious, but there wasn't a sliver of doubt that he had finally reached the limits of his endurance.

Biting back a justified but certainly unwelcome 'I've told you so', the warrior knight flopped down onto the cold stone floor and fumbled with the plug of their last canteen of water. After swallowing a few tepid sips which didn't do much to soothe his parched throat, he propped Tarrant up against his torso and pushed it at his lips, deeply worried about the feverish heat radiating from the lean body in his arms. "Drink it up, Gerald," he urged. "It tastes awful, but it's better than nothing. We can worry about stocking up on our provisions later. If there is a 'later' for us, regarding that due to your hare-brained plan we'll soon be in the shit up to our necks again. And when you have finished the canteen, you'd better eat one or two of those nutrition bars and have a short nap afterwards. There's a temperature on the way, and I don't like how your pulse is racing like mad, don't like it at all. A fat lot of use your vulking books will be to you if you kick the bucket in this miserable place. Not to mention that I haven't risked my butt Healing you just to have to watch you breaking your own back now, you stubborn son of a bitch."

In stark contrast to his usual demeanour, the adept obeyed without a whiff of resistance, mechanically chewing the morsels of food Damien stuffed into his mouth without asking for permission. But there was still about a third of the first bar left when his eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep of utter exhaustion. Stifling a sigh, Vryce leaned himself against the wall of the tunnel, wrapped his arms around his companion and was lost to the world as well.

About two hours later, he awoke with a start from an utterly pleasant but slightly disturbing dream featuring Gerald as the main protagonist. All his senses on the alert, he scanned his surroundings for an imminent danger, sending a silent thanksgiving prayer to the One God that his lantern was still burning. Neither beast, demonling nor human aggressor was trying to sneak up on them very much to his relief. But although the Neocount hadn't returned from dreamland yet, he had become rather restive in his embrace, tossing his head from side to side and moaning softly as if in pain.

Somewhat worried, Vryce subjected his limp form to a closer inspection and  froze. Only now he realized that his right hand had found a quite daring resting place on the adept's crotch. And that if he wasn't completely mistaken, a certain part of Tarrant's anatomy was just about resuming its proper functioning after nigh to a millennium of disuse. Crap!

 _Merciful God in Heaven, what have I done to deserve this?_   the former priest silently quarrelled with his maker. _Why on Earth and Erna does the vulking bastard have to have a wet dream right here in my lap? Isn't it enough that I have to deal with those wholly inappropriate longings it pleases you to burden me with? There's only so much a man can take!"_

Damien was well aware that there was just one decent course of action left to him: shifting his hand to a less dangerous zone of Gerald's body, forgetting about the whole thing and dozing off again. Plain and simple. Of course he could substitute the last point on this agenda with waking his ally up and resuming their walk into death's gaping maw. As the adept had stated just a few hours ago, it might indeed be easier the second time (COS, p. 472). Or the third or fourth, for that matter. Escaping one mortal peril after the other by the skin of his teeth for years on end, he had quite lost count.

The only problem was that feeling the unyielding hardness beneath the grey worsted leggings, his by now seriously impaired brain could barely remember his own name, let alone how to move his damned fingers. Try as he might, they wouldn't budge an inch.

Torn between the equally overpowering urges to either make a bolt for it or to jump at thrice damned Gerald Tarrant and to hell with the consequences, he very nearly choked on his breath as he noticed that the adept was watching him from under half-closed eyelids. The drawn, filthy face was perfectly composed, giving nothing away, but there was a strange sparkle in those mesmerizing grey depths which didn't bode well.

Mortified, he snatched his hand away as if he had burned himself. "Gerald, I... please don't jump to conclusions now," he stuttered, his face burning with embarrassment. "I was asleep. So were you. It doesn't mean a thing."

A pale index finger on his lips very effectively silenced his incoherent ramblings. "Doesn't it, Vryce?" the former Hunter challenged him, the question a throaty purr which did nothing to set Damien's mind at ease. "I think there you are very much mistaken. As a healer - and a priest - you should be well versed in the language of the subconscious. A famous psychologist on our mother planet Earth called dreams 'the road to the unconscious mind', suggesting that the content of of the nocturnal escapades of our brains is an expression of the suppressed wishes of the dreamer. I feel inclined to agree with him. And on a more mundane level," he added with a shrug, "I'm just beginning to warm to the idea. So don't let me stop you."

Unable to keep up with the wholly unexpected turn of events, the warrior knight goggled in baffled incomprehension as his sword hand was grasped without further ado and placed exactly where it had been a few seconds ago. This had to be one of the wish dreams his brother-in-arms had just lectured on. Or a hallucination spawned by sleep deprivation, exhaustion and fear if it wasn't actually a malevolent illusion conjured up by one of Calesta's siblings intent on taking vengeance for the demise of one of his kind. Gerald couldn't really mean... couldn't want...

But all doubts were removed when Tarrant pushed his pelvis upwards in an utterly unambiguous manner which had his own genitals responding with a vengeance. His capacity for rational thinking slowly but surely taking its leave of him, Damien threw all caution to the wind and gave in to temptation in form of a certain irritating but yet so very alluring adept at long last.

At first, he settled for massaging the rather impressive bulge through the cloth, watching out for a sign of displeasure on the Neocount's delicate features. But since the enraptured expression on his face left no doubt that he was taking kindly to his tentative caresses, he became bolder and pulled down the bothersome pants and briefs at one go. Both of them had been forced to neglect their personal hygiene for days now and weren't quite smelling of roses. But to him, the sight of Gerald laid bare to his touch, so willing and eager for the things to come, was the most potent aphrodisiac he could possibly imagine.

Trembling in every limb with arousal and nervousness alike, Damien closed his fingers around the object of his desire. But he hadn't come very far when the adept stilled his hand. "This isn't quite what I have in mind," he breathed. "But laying with me, I'm afraid you'll have to do all the work. Although I'm loath to admit it, I don't think I can play an active part in the proceedings. And now kindly help me to pull off my boots."

The warrior knight's brain cells were still trying to process the implications of the statement when his fingers started to move on their own account. Tarrant's battered footwear was tossed carelessly away, followed by his sweat-soaked leggings and socks. His own trousers came off in a heartbeat soon afterwards, and a blanket retrieved from his backpack was used as a quite comfortable underlay.

Their hasty preparations made, the Neocount pulled him on top of him with a low, wistful sigh which caused his hairs to stand on end all over his body. But before Damien could fully lose himself in the magic of the moment, a sudden thought stopped him short. "Gerald, I'm not exactly a specialist in the field, but I think this is going to hurt," he muttered uneasily. "We've still got a few ounces of the lamp oil, but I don't deem it wise to put it where it could carry out its duty, if you now what I mean. So you'd better be sure about this. We could pleasure each other without causing you pain."

Tarrant chuckled. "I'm touched by your concern for my well-being, Vryce. But I am sure. Very sure, in fact. And now stop fretting. There are substances other than oil which can be used to our utmost satisfaction."

In order to make his point, he took hold of Damien's hand again and commenced to lick his digits very much in the manner of an uncat grooming her fur, evidently for once not paying attention to the caked dirt and sweat which had accumulated on his skin over the last days. When the soft, hot tongue proceeded to his palm, coating it with a layer of saliva, something inside the former priest snapped. Completely blown away by what was giving an entirely fresh meaning to the term 'hand job', he was but dimly aware that he broke free from the adept's grip and spread the fluid over his throbbing erection.

Touching his own flesh sent sparks of arousal through his entire body, setting his nerve ends on fire and urging him to go on until he found release. In the state of feverish arousal he was in, it certainly wouldn't take him long. But this wasn't what he truly craved. Not by a long shot. He hungered for Gerald, needed him with a primeval hunger unlike anything he had ever experienced before. And he would have him, here and now, or he would surely go mad with unsatisfied desire.

The gloomy, damp tunnel faded into non-existence as he lowered his bulk onto the adept and pressed in, forcing himself to take it nice and slow instead of sliding inside the tight channel in one single thrust. In spite of his restraint, Tarrant winced at the intrusion into his most private place. But although he was clearly in pain, he neither pushed him back nor asked him to stop.

When they were fully joined at last, the warrior knight held his fire for a while, mobilizing his last reserves of self-control to grant his lover some time to adjust. As soon as Gerald's breath had levelled out again, Vryce started to move ever so slowly, relishing in the feel of tightness and heat engulfing him like a sea of liquid fire.

At first, his endeavours seemed to be met with no response. Tarrant lay perfectly still, his eyes closed as if he had gone back to sleep. But then, running purely on instinct, Damien twisted his hips, and a tremor passed through his lithe frame. Intrigued, he repeated the manoeuvre, just to be rewarded with the very same result.

Having finally gotten the hang of it, Vryce continued with making love to the only man he had ever lusted after at a measured pace until the Neocount of Merentha locked his legs around his back and buried his face at the crook of his neck. Then they were both moving, slowly rocking together in a rhythm as old as the world, and he could sense the tension rising in the body writhing beneath him, could feel it in the way the long, graceful limbs tightened almost painfully around him and Gerald's breath sped up with each passing second. And the noises he made deep down in his throat were exquisite, his half-stifled sighs and moans fuelling the flames blazing in Vryce's nether regions to a nigh to intolerable level.

But still he reined himself in. Evidently, the adept was close now. So close that a few hard, fast thrusts would be all that was needed to make him come. But although the pleasure centre in his brain was begging for satisfaction with jarring insistence, Damien's rational mind wanted this sweet agony which shielded them from whatever was waiting for them at the Hunter's black replica of Merentha Castle to last a little bit longer. Intent on keeping Tarrant on the verge of orgasm as long as possible, he slowed down even further, resisting with all his might the slender fingers digging deeply into his buttocks in a frantic attempt to spur him on and the fractured voice calling him a sadistic bastard. Gerald was clinging to him like a drowning man now, his muscles rigid as stone and his ragged sobs music to his ears. But it wasn't until he felt him starting to spill in rhythmic, shuddering spasms that he allowed his instincts to take over, picking up the pace and riding his lover with abandon until the waves of pleasure radiating from his own abdomen blanked out the world.

Sated and exhausted, they went to sleep in each other's arms without wasting a thought on the rather grim future prospects. But when the warrior knight woke up, he was alone. For a moment, he was completely disorientated, wondering what he was doing in a dimly lit tunnel and, even more importantly, why on Earth and Erna he was naked from the waist down. Then his eyes fell on the sticky mess on his belly, and realization hit him with a force of a very bad quake.

In spite of being tired to the bone, Gerald and he had done the unthinkable and had gotten it on with each other like two infatuated teenagers. When the adept had come undone under him, moaning his given name again and again like a mantra, his entire perception had changed forever, and mere lust had been transformed into something infinitely more lasting. But whether Tarrant had wanted to spare him a grisly fate in a rare mood of compassion or had harboured regrets about their romp on the blanket, he had chosen to leave him behind, had departed on his quest to save the knowledge accumulated in centuries in form of his treasured books and notes without a last good-bye.

A sense of impending doom so intense that he could barely breathe welled up from the fathomless abysses of his soul wherein the nightmares crawl. Aside from his faith which naturally included a fair amount of believing without seeing, he had always considered himself a thoroughly down-to-earth guy who didn't give a damn for ominous omens and unfounded hunches. But now he knew without a sliver of doubt that if Gerald carried out his asinine plan all on his own, he would never come out of it alive.

Half out of his mind with terror, Damien jumped to his feet, struggled into his trousers and boots at record speed and set about the pursuit of his wayward lover. Thank goodness, he didn't have to go far in his state. After jogging around a bend in the tunnel, he spotted the adept at the base of a staircase which had been carved into the stone of the mountain, one foot already on the lowest step. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you foolish son of a bitch?" he yelled at the top of his voice. "Have you lost your mind? For the love of God, just stay where you are, or I'll make you regret the day you were born!"

A hint of defiance passed over the angelic features marred by numerous smudges and bruises, but at least Tarrant stopped his ascent and waited for him. "You are a nuisance, Vryce," he said softly. "Not that this comes as a surprise. I suspected you would cause problems, and so I decided to leave while you were still asleep. But obviously, I've underestimated your ability for regeneration. It won't happen again."

"It certainly won't if you don't come to your senses before it's too late. Corpses don't commit a blunder, you know." Registering the faintly hysterical undertone in his voice, Damien drew a deep breath in order to compose himself, well aware that acting like a madman wouldn't earn him any points with the ever so controlled Neocount. "Gerald, listen," he started all over again, sounding slightly more grounded than during his first try to get through to the one man who more than equalled him in terms of stubbornness. "I know that your notes on the Iezu and all the other stuff you've been hoarding in your library for ages are of irreplaceable value for mankind, and I understand your need to protect them from coming to harm. I really do. But in the end, it's just books. Whether they're worth dying for is not for me to judge. But I thought that, well, after what has come to pass between us, you might have found something worth living for.

For what felt like a small eternity Tarrant just stared at him without moving a muscle, his pale grey eyes locked with his own as if he was weighing his soul. Just when the warrior knight thought he couldn't bear the tension any longer, his brother-in-arms shrugged almost imperceptibly and stepped back into the tunnel. "Just so, Vryce," he whispered. "Just so." Then he brushed past him and set out on his way back without a further syllable.

Relieved beyond words, Damien hastened to follow him. His adrenaline rush slowly subsiding, pain and exhaustion were making themselves known again, and he had no idea how they could reach more civilized areas without succumbing to hunger and thirst first. But everything was better than to watch Gerald perishing in a futile attempt to save his records. And somehow, the sudden disappearance of the terrible dread which had been weighing him down since the adept had unveiled his plan told him that they would be alright at the end of the day. Very likely on their last legs and dirty as hell, but alright. And together. Smiling, he adjusted the straps of his pack and marched on with renewed vigour.


End file.
